In fact, you're an army doctor Any good (in bed)?
by AnotherFanFic
Summary: One-shot. Johnlock. Sherlock injures himself and needs John's assistance, but the doctor himself is lying injured in bed. This fic-let is an excerpt taken from my ongoing one-shot series (ASiP: Fortune-Cookie Style!). The series is rated M, but this chapter is not. *R&R, if you like (and I hope you do!)*


**You're a doctor. In fact you're an army doctor...**

**Any good... in bed? **

Sherlock Holmes

* * *

It's 9:15pm when the boys return from the A&E. John's had a couple of x-rays, and as far as anyone can tell, he's got a badly sprained ankle. They'll give it a couple of weeks in a brace, and take some more images if needed.

Crossing the threshold of 221B, John stops only briefly to drop his keys in the bowl by the door. He hobbles up the extra flight of stairs to his room, comes down in a bathrobe and heads for the shower.

He stops and shrugs at Sherlock as he passes through the den, and with a tired smile for the lanky young genius, he turns toward the stairs and his bed.

Sherlock's baritone reaches John on the first step.

"Not having any _tea_ tonight?"

John pauses, a hand on the wall. One last cuppa before turning in. It's long been a part of his evening routine, and he feels he is somehow failing them both by skipping it.

"No." He blows out a breath. Exhausted from the pain in his ankle and the hours he's spent waiting in X-ray, he goes on. "Not tonight, mate. Long day. Gonna crash. If I don't climb these stairs again right now, I won't have the strength to do them in fifteen minutes."

Sherlock gives a grunt of understanding, and regards him with polite expectation.

John's smile is genuine. "Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight, John."

From his room, John hears the detective moving about and starting up the shower. He turns down the covers, collapsing wearily onto his bed, and moves a pillow into the empty space down the end. On his back, he pushes and pulls the pillow into a comfortable arrangement to elevate his ankle.

Then drawing the covers across his body, he discovers they're not hitting him properly. He tugs on them - gently at first, and then a bit harder - turning his ankle a fraction of a degree in the process. The sudden sharp pain draws a curse from his army repertoire, and he sits up, exasperated. Reaching toward the foot of the bed, he yanks at the bedclothes until they are completely untucked, covering every inch of him that wants their familiar weight, but without any excess hanging over the edge of his left foot, because the downward pull is causing him discomfort.

He falls back onto his pillow, smiling in the darkness, and hums. For John, there is nothing so welcome as sleep after an incredibly long day, and he succumbs to it, with the sound of water flowing through the pipes in the opposite wall.

Sherlock steps out of the shower and dries himself with a towel. He knows that John is already asleep, so he walks across the flat to his room, stark naked. From his chest he pulls out a favorite pair of silk pajamas, and lifts a morning robe from the back of the door.

He is dressed and standing in the kitchen moments later, where he fills the electric kettle and readies his cup and saucer. Flopping onto the couch, he pulls a newspaper from the coffee table and scans it disinterestedly, while he waits for the water to boil.

There is a notice in the paper, on the back of the section he's reading. A recall for a popular brand. Something to do with a hinge on the lid of a kettle. Sherlock hasn't seen the article, but the recall details the model he is currently using. They've had it a couple of months, with no signs of trouble or defect.

The kettle sings, and Sherlock rolls up his sleeves as he moves toward the cup on the counter. He lifts the kettle with his right hand and begins to tip it downward. The lid flies off unexpectedly. Completely startled, he manages to avoid getting any boiling water on his bottoms or his bare feet, half tossing and half _dropping_ the kettle into the sink. His triumph is immediately dampened when he realizes that his hands and forearm have been scalded; partially with steam, partially with water splashed from the cup (its intended target) when he jumped at the appliance malfunction.

With his right arm, he turns the cold water tap, meaning to run soothing liquid over his stinging hands. At a glance, he can see that the damage will need additional treatment.

_Inconvenient. And completely ridiculous._

Annoyed, Sherlock trudges up the stairs to John's room. The air whooshing past his injured flesh leaves his fingers screaming with pain.

He can sense that John is awake, and having no available appendages to apply to the problem of_ doorknob_, he taps at the door itself with his right big toe, announcing his presence in a relatively quiet voice.

"John."

There is a rustling from within, and a bit of awkward hopping (followed by a sleep-drunken curse) before the doctor appears behind a partially opened door.

Squinting at first from the light of the downstairs lamp, John instinctively averts his eyes from the too-bright hallway.

"Sherlock," he croaks. "What's happened?"

With an audible sigh, the genius replies. "An accident."

John shakes his head to clear it. "I know, I heard you shouting. And the crash." He yawns behind his hand, blinking up at the taller man. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, annoyed that the ramifications of his disastrous tea-making have extended to his flatmate.

"Sorry," he concedes, and he means it.

"So?" John asks. He leans on the doorknob instead of on his injured ankle, which has begun to throb from the blood rushing toward it once again.

Sherlock frowns. "I need your kit."

John turns to look at his desk. "It's over there –" he stifles another yawn. "You know where it is. Come on in." He hops backward carefully so that Sherlock can enter.

"I've gotta get back off this ankle. Can you bring it over-? Oh. No, you've injured your hands! Sorry. Just… give me a quick minute."

The door clicks shut as John uses it to move toward the switch on the wall. For a half second they are in total darkness, and then the room is bathed in quiet night-time light.

"Sorry," Sherlock says again.

John winces as he moves toward his desk.

"S' okay, mate. Was that the kettle?"

"Yes," the deep voice drawls, and John can practically hear his flatmate's eyes rolling.

"Sit down on the bed, " he instructs. "Is it just your hands?" He deposits his kit onto the desk chair and pushes it across the narrow room.

"No. My left arm was scalded as well."

Willing himself into greater alertness, the doctor shuffles around the desk chair and eases himself into it. Doing his best to ignore the pain in his ankle, he raises his foot off the carpet and braces his calf on a bit of the edge of the mattress, to the right of the injured detective. He reaches for his kit behind his back, and places it on Sherlock's left side.

"Here, mate. Let me see." He examines the injured arm first, gingerly, with expert eyes. He can see that the right hand needs attention, too, but the left one is the worst.

"Some of this is under your clothes, yeah?" John notes softly. "But it doesn't look like they're stuck to you." He turns the arm over very gently, and pulls the sleeve of the robe up and above the elbow. The pajama sleeve is pushed up carefully as well. Sherlock, to his credit, merely blinks at the inflamed skin. But John can't keep his sympathies to himself. He hisses and grimaces at the blisters that are starting to form on Sherlock's hands, and rolls up the right sleeves as well.

"Okay," he says. "Now I've had a proper look, let's take your shirt off actually."

And knowing his friend, he rushes on, cutting off any chance for complaint. "You can't keep the sleeves rolled up, they'll just slide back down and irritate it." He turns the left arm over again, reviews the patterns left from the steam and boiling water.

"May I?' he hesitates, with a gesture at Sherlock's robe.

Sherlock shrugs.

"I'll be cold," he argues, and John gently removes first his right arm, then his left from the dressing gown. It's tricky, but the doctor manages to roll the pajama sleeves back, keeping the fabric from contacting the patient's reddened skin as he removes the outer garment. He twists around to drape the robe over the back of his own chair.

"Now your shirt," he encourages, reaching for Sherlock's collar. A heated flush creeps up the back of his neck. Ever the professional, and always with a bedside manner that inspires total trust, he does his best to ignore his own biological reactions, and hopes he isn't lingering too long on each silk-covered button. He's glad at least that the flush is hidden from his flatmate's line of sight, but then he feels a reddening of his ears.

Sherlock's eyes are studying him intensely.

"Right hand first, now. Careful… Okay, and now your left. Be still. Just…shrug out of it, okay. And over the injury. Great." He smiles for Sherlock but with his eyes on the shirt, as he twists around and tosses it over the robe. He busies himself with opening his kit, rummaging very thoroughly, and definitely _not_ looking at Sherlock.

"I need to clean this area," he talks as he works, partially to Sherlock, and partially to keep himself on task.

"This is an anti-septic ointment that also has a nice numbing effect. The numbness will wear off in about fifteen minutes, so: Take these ibuprofen first, and then I'll slather on the cream. Hopefully by the time that starts wearing off, the painkillers will be setting in, and the anti-inflammatory bit will be doing its part as well."

Sherlock swallows the pills and the water without raising a single objection, and John begins applying the burn salve to the larger areas first. The numbing effects are almost immediate; Sherlock lets out a breath he hasn't realized he's been holding.

"Thank you," he sighs.

"We'll put a dressing on them tonight, see how they look in the morning."

The doctor busies himself with the correct application, keeping it loose over the burned skin so that nothing might stick to it, and sealing down the edges to prevent any germs from creeping in.

"There now. All finished." He smiles, almost as an afterthought, closing his kit and moving it back to his lap.

"John."

"Mm?"

Sherlock hesitates, frowning. "I'll still be cold."

John has done his best to avoid ogling the toned, pale torso in his direct line of vision. The perfect, smooth skin. Nipples hardening in the air-conditioned room.

"Yeah?" he looks around him, searching, an idea landing suddenly. "You can sleep in one of my tees."

The detective looks up sharply, and John lowers his foot from the bed, dropping his kit back into the chair, hobbling painfully to his chest and opening a drawer. He shuffles back to the chair and uses one of its arms to steady himself, a soft cotton shirt in his right hand. He sways a bit from exhaustion, and Sherlock heaves himself into a standing position.

"It's a bit short for you, but I can't bloody get downstairs for one of yours, and you couldn't put it on yourself even if it were folded on your lap."

Sherlock stares dumbly at him.

"On the plus side," John continues, "mine's a bit wider than yours, so you'll have less trouble squeezing into it." He smiles, searching the detective's face for a sign that this is unwelcome, and then begins to pull the shirt on: left armhole first, then the right one, then a big tug over Sherlock's head. He is panting slightly now, and sits on the bed himself, pulling the shirt down around the detective's long upper body.

The shirt is a couple of inches short, leaving a strip of exposed skin between the hem of the fabric and the top of Sherlock's silk pajama bottoms.

_Oh, bloody hell_, John's mind screams at him, even as his body has started to shut back down now he's done his doctor-ly duty.

He sweeps his leg back over the pillow at the end of the bed and leans back, closing his eyes. It was like this in Afghanistan as well, this waking in the middle of the night to do a surgery, often falling back to sleep before he could think to remove his boots.

"John."

"Yeah, Sherlock," the doctor murmurs sleepily, already dozing off.

"I can't wear my robe."

John sighs. "Nope."

"My hands are useless."

"Yes they are."

"I-"

John yawns loudly. "Sherlock, what?"

"Your door is closed."

"Mmm," the doctor answers non-committally.

"John!"

"Sorry-" John forces his eyes to open, and focuses them on the detective.

"Well," he says matter-of-factly, passing a hand over his face and then rubbing his arms for warmth. "You could... Sleep here. With me. Just... right here." He gives an inviting pat to the empty space on his right.

Sherlock's reply is a long-suffering sigh.

"Well. I'm not getting out of this bed again tonight. I'm not moving...[yawn]... my Bloody foot. Again."

"Fine."

"What?"

"Fine."

But Sherlock stands perfectly still, making no move toward the bed.

"Look, if you're not gonna sleep, can you at least turn out the light? Use your shoulder or something?" John closes his eyes.

Sherlock is completely silent.

"Seriously, mate, the ibuprofen will help, but you want to get yourself to sleep pretty quickly." John turns to look at his flatmate, only to find he's being scrutinized himself. Sherlock's looking down at him with his... _deducing you_ expression: head tilted slightly toward the doctor, chin down and to the left; head drawn back a bit, eyes bright and roving.

John smiles at him kindly, non-threatening.

"Sherlock?"

The detective blinks rapidly in his direction.

John waits patiently, sensing he is about to speak.

"That would be acceptable."

"Really."

"Yes. I said it would be."

"It would."

"Yes. Acceptable."

Sherlock crosses over to the wall and pulls down the light switch with his shoulder blade. His eyes are not adjusted to the dark.

"John."

"Yep. Over here."

The detective makes his way to the bed, sitting carefully on the edge and lowering himself onto his side before pulling his legs up as well.

John feels the mattress dipping low. "There - Careful, you." Sherlock turns onto his back.

_Oh,_ John remembers. "Here," he shifts the pillow under his head so that half of it is on Sherlock's side now. Sherlock huffs in frustration.

"Comfortable?"

"Fine," the deep voice drawls, and John can hear that tiredness has crept in.

"Okay. That's... great. Sorry you've been hurt, Sherlock. Sleep well."

"Not your fault, John. Good night."

"Night, mate."

They are quiet for a moment, then Sherlock resumes complaining.

"John."

"Mmm?"

"Cold."

John's impatient sigh is also decisive. "Yes, right. Come on." He lifts up the bedclothes and tugs Sherlock's shirtsleeve. "Careful! Thaaat'll work, yeah... Alright." he announces. "Sorted?"

"Yes."

"'Night, then." He blows out a breath that ruffles the mop of dark curly hair resting under his chin. One arm is wound around the detective's back, holding the duvet over both of them.

On impulse he kisses the top of that obstinate head, rubbing his thumb back and forth across a bit of bedclothes that are covering Sherlock's - John's - tee shirt and the beautiful skin underneath it.

"Mmm..." The arms draped about John might have twitched, as if they would gladly give him a full squeeze, but for... Sherlock's left forearm is now dangling off the side of the bed, his right wrist rests just-so on the edge of John's pillow so as not to have either burn site resting on its bandages. He draws his left leg up to wrap securely around John's right one, careful not to jostle the doctor's left leg and his elevated ankle.

With their respective injuries, it's basically a wonder they can muster anything so ambitious as a cuddle. But with the safety of the darkness and the actions and the words, Sherlock decides there's nothing for it. Snuggling shamelessly into the warm, strong chest, he presses his ear to the thrumming heartbeat, and breathes in deeply the smell of John Watson.


End file.
